


so i can play the strings of your death

by atetheredmind (s_e_irvine)



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-14
Updated: 2012-12-14
Packaged: 2017-11-21 03:33:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,873
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/592965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/s_e_irvine/pseuds/atetheredmind
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Peeta needs a little help finding his way back to himself, and to Katniss. Vaguely based on Charles Dickens' "A Christmas Carol." Also loosely inspired by Dante's "Inferno."</p>
            </blockquote>





	so i can play the strings of your death

_"When I had journeyed half of our life's way,_  
 _I found myself within a shadowed forest,_  
 _for I had lost the path that does not stray."_  
—Canto 1, lines 1-3, Dante Alighieri's **Inferno  
**

 

 

**_stave i._ basso loco  
** or _, a deep place_

Winter was always the hardest on Peeta.

The cold weather made him ache more, the throbbing in his leg from walking on a prosthetic almost dwarfed by the needling pain of a phantom limb he no longer had. He moved slower because of it and slipped often in his icy treks between the Victor's Village and the rebuilt bakery. He could grit his teeth and bear it, though—he'd long ago perfected the art of suffering his physical agony in silence, after all.

But worse, though, were the memories. Working in the bakery, on the very spot where the old one had burned down—his family's bakery, where his parents and his brothers had died—wasn't as therapeutic as he'd thought it would be. Their ghosts were everywhere. In the kitchen pulling breads out of the oven, at the register helping customers, at the front arranging the display cakes. Even at the back wielding a threatening rolling pin.

He felt like he was suffocating in the ashes of their shadows.

His episodes were more frequent in the winter, much longer in nature and much, much harder to emerge from. Not even Katniss could help, though she tried. These days, she seemed to make them worse. Fighting through the fog of his mutilated memories and the horrifying images that comprised his nightmares, only to find _her_ hovering over him, he'd lash out at _her_ , the mutt Katniss, the Katniss who tried to kill him in the first arena, the Katniss who triggered the bombing in District 12, the Katniss who obliterated his entire family and most of his friends. _That_ Katniss. That fucking mutt Katniss. She was a mutt, _A FUCKING MUTT—_

His attacks were getting worse. But the scariest part was that he was having a harder time distinguishing between his hijacked thoughts and his own. Sometimes he would look at her in her kitchen— _their kitchen?—_ and she could be doing something as innocuous as drinking a cup of tea, and the niggling mind splinters about hating _her_ , resenting _her_ , wishing _she_ were the one who'd died, they would fragment his otherwise clear thoughts so suddenly, he'd reflexively grab onto the counter, ready to beat back the episode.

But it wouldn't come. And he'd realize just how lucid and shine-free his thoughts still were. He was out the door so fast each time, Katniss' bewildered eyes following him all the way to his own house in Victor's Village. He told himself it was for her safety when he'd lock his front door and crawl into his largely unused bed to sleep. (He didn't know what to make of the fact that he felt so relieved to be free of her nagging presence and her insidious toxicity.)

Peeta always woke up the morning after those events to find Katniss in his bed (usually having slipped through a window he'd forgotten to lock), wrapped so tightly around him he could barely breathe. Some days it was a comfort; he could relax in her embrace, inhale her familiar woodsy scent and remind himself he was safe, she was real, _this_ was real. Other times, though...other times, her arms felt like a noose, strangling him, and it brought him back to those dark moments where it was _her_ choking him, laughing in his face as she crushed his windpipe, and he would shove her away so hard, she'd nearly topple out of the bed.

She'd never leave him, though, even if he begged. That was the funny thing about Katniss—she'd flinch away from the first sign of uninvited affection, but when denied it, she sought it out that much harder. She was like a wounded puppy in that regard.

(Like a mutt, a long-clawed, ratty-furred, sharp-toothed beast, _a fucking mutt_ —)

Winter was the worst.

 

 

Peeta was in Katniss' ( _their?_ ) kitchen, methodically chopping up carrots and potatoes to go into a vegetable soup for dinner. He was alone with just the quiet _schnick schnick schnick_ of the knife as it sliced through the meaty flesh of the roots. It was comforting. Hypnotic. His mind was elsewhere, and nowhere.

"Hey, I got us some squirrel meat—"

Peeta hissed in pain, startled by Katniss' unexpected voice. Red blossomed along a neat little line on his knuckle from where the blade had cut. Reflexively, he lifted his hand to his mouth to suck on his finger but froze when he realized just how much blood there was. Katniss was at his back in an instant, and he gripped the knife harder.

"Oh, no, I'm sorry, Peeta. I didn't mean—"

" _Stop_."

He could feel her breath on his neck. His knuckles discolored on the handle, shaking from the strain of gripping it.

"Peeta..."

Red splattered on the cutting board, _drip drip drip_ , but he didn't move to staunch the blood flow; all his energy was focused on not whirling around and jamming the knife into her jugular. Was he having an episode? His heart was pounding in his ribcage, blood rushing through his ears, but he didn't feel the blackness pressing on his vision as it usually did right before he lost his grip on reality. All he could see was red, red blood, _his_ blood, with Katniss at his back. He should have lost control by now, but he hadn't.

So where was this urge to stab her coming from?

"Peeta, at least let me clean that for you—"

"Katniss. I have a _knife_ in my hand. You really need to take two giant steps back."

Her warm breath quickened on his neck, sending shivers down his spine; goosebumps prickled the skin on his forearms. His finger was throbbing, the sting of the cut forcing tears to the corners of his eyes. There was blood on the carrot slices now, too, _drip drip drip_. His mouth was dry, and he took a deep breath, closing his eyes so he wouldn't have to see the blood. Blood she had caused, however indirectly (but she had still caused it, hadn't she?). He swallowed thickly; he really just needed to drop the knife, relax his fingers and—

Peeta tensed when he felt Katniss' hand on his, gently squeezing his fingers around the knife before prying them open. It clattered to the counter. But she didn't release his hand, instead curling his fingers under his palm and turning him around slowly to face her. Her pallor matched his, he was sure. Her gray eyes were apprehensive but determined as she quickly snatched up a dish towel from the counter and wrapped it around his finger. He sucked his bottom lip into his mouth to stifle a gasp of pain. She steered him to the sink and turned the faucet on, whipping the towel off his finger to plunge it into the cool running water. It stung even more.

"Just hold it here for a moment while I grab some bandages," she directed, already walking out of the kitchen. He just watched his diluted blood splash down against the porcelain veneer, swirling into oblivion. Katniss returned with hydrogen peroxide, disinfectant cream and gauze. He bit his tongue when she doused the cut with the alcohol, applied some cream and then quickly wrapped it in multiple turns of the bandages. "I'm sorry," she said softly after a moment. "I didn't mean to startle you."

Glowering, he pushed away from her and moved back to the cutting board to wipe it down with the dish towel. His eyes darted to the knife, his hand twitching, but he left it. "You never listen," he said, his voice taut with anger. Her surprise was palpable.

" _What_? Why are you so mad?" She didn't move from the sink.

"You never fucking _listen,_ Katniss," he sneered, staring at the blood-soaked towel. "I asked you to step back, and you didn't. I could have hurt you."

"I wasn't scared. I know you wouldn't—"

He pinned her with the icy blue heat of his glare. "I _would._ I almost _did._ Why don't you get this?" She was always _pushing_. Always _taking_. She took what she wanted, regardless of his wishes, his needs, just sucked him dry until there was nothing left but this empty, useless husk.

There was real fear in her eyes this time as what he said sunk in. "I thought you were getting better, Peeta," she whispered, and he snorted derisively.

"You always were so oblivious, weren't you?"

Annoyance distorted her features. "What does that mean?"

"It _means_ you only ever see what you want to see, Katniss. You want me to be better so you can assuage your guilt, so you can ease your own misery in my stead, just like you did on the Victory Tour."

She had the decency to drop his gaze this time, shame flushing her cheeks and the bridge of her nose. Her chin quivered as she took a deep, centering breath. "I thought...we helped each other..."

"You only ever cared about helping yourself," he snarled. He set his bandaged hand on the counter. The white gauze was already stained red. Was nothing she did ever absent of some unspoken apology, some begrudged debt?

"How can you even say that?" she asked hoarsely, folding her arms over her stomach, folding in on herself. Her defenses were up, but he could hear the defeat in her voice. She knew it was true as much as he did.

"I probably know you better than anyone, Katniss," he said, his voice steely. His other hand gripped the oven handle. "Admit it—you're here with me because I'm the only one who came back. You share your bed with me because there's no one else to warm it."

The accusation was implied, suspended unsaid between them: _You chose me because you couldn't choose Gale._

She was silent for a tense moment. Then, "I don't think you know me at all, Peeta."

He scoffed, his hand idly tugging the oven door open before closing it. He creaked it open again, just so his idle hands had something to do. "No, I don't suppose I do. Not as well as _some_ people, anyway, right? Tell me, what did I miss _getting to know_ when you were in 13 and I was being tortured in the Capitol? And before that, after the first games? What did I miss then, when you didn't even talk to me for six months?"

Six months alone, six months with no one to ease his anxiety, to comfort him during his night terrors. Months of knowing she was much further away than her address suggested, months wondering just what, exactly, she and Hawthorne were doing in those woods. Months of oppressive summer heat bleeding into months of strangulating winter chill that made his desolation so much more acute.

He fucking hated winter.

"Where is this all coming from?" she asked in a voice tinged with frustration and bafflement. "Are you having another episode?"

He banged the oven door shut so suddenly, she jumped. "No! I. Am. Not. Having. Another. Episode!" He punctuated each word with a slam of the door. Fucking electric ovens—he hated them, too.

"Peeta—" she gasped, but he blew past her, out of the kitchen. She moved to follow him, and he spun around so fast, she actually jumped back. In terror.

"No!" he snarled, his breathing ragged, but then he closed his eyes, sucking in air to slow his heart. "Just—please, fucking leave me alone when I ask you to. Please."

Then he was out the door, a coat forgotten in his haste. But he could barely feel the blustery air, his blood thrumming hot beneath his skin. He was walking so fast, he slipped a few times on the sheets of snow that covered the grass; he was at Haymitch's house before he could even process where he was going.

He didn't bother to knock, throwing the door open. Haymitch regarded him warily from his couch, a bottle of vodka in his hand. "What the fuck do you want, boy?" he growled, but his voice lacked any malice. Peeta ignored his question, yanking the bottle out of the older man's hand to take a long, hard swig. Then he thrust it back into Haymitch's hand, again ignoring his scowl, and flopped down in a chair across from him.

Something softened in Haymitch's eyes, though creases still pinched his brow together; his former mentor could read him better than most people. "You and the girl fighting again? 'Cuz I ain't your damn therapist, kid," he said gruffly, tipping the bottle between his lips.

Peeta's face hardened, and he flexed his bandaged hand; he would need to change the gauze soon, but he doubted Haymitch had any first-aid supplies. "I'm not here to talk about her," he said evenly.

Haymitch surveyed his face, squinting through bleary, blood-shot eyes. "You're lookin' twitchy. You takin' your pills still?"

Peeta's lip curled, and he leaned forward to grab for the vodka again. Haymitch gave it up more willingly this time. Peeta hated those pills. He couldn't _feel anything_ when he took them, not good, not bad. And if he couldn't even feel pain, how did he know what was real? Haymitch took his silent pull on the bottle as confirmation. He grunted. "Then at least talk to your shrink about whatever this is. I can't help you."

If he talked to Dr. Aurelius, he'd have to admit he had stopped taking the pills. "I'm fine. I just need to...not be around _her_."

This pulled Haymitch up short, and his eyes narrowed even more. "And why is that, boy?" Peeta didn't respond, knocking back another shot of vodka instead. Haymitch shook his head. "You know, it wasn't that long ago you two couldn't stand to be _without_ each other."

Peeta flinched. Haymitch was wrong about that; the _old_ Peeta couldn't stand to be without her. He wasn't the old Peeta anymore. The Capitol had made damn sure of that. But in some ways, he was grateful for that fact. Because, now, he could see Katniss for who she really was, finally untethered by his boyhood veneration of a girl he had never really known.

He took another swig of the vodka, swallowing against the burn. "Things change, I guess," he gasped, choking past the fire that burned his esophagus. Haymitch rubbed his forehead; Peeta swallowed some more vodka.

"Maybe. I don't know that it's that simple. And I'm pretty sure sweetheart over there still needs you, at least."

Sweetheart? Katniss wasn't sweet. He wasn't even sure she had a heart. At least, not one of her own. She had ripped his out a long time ago. Like one of the Capitol mutts.

She was a mutt, a filthy fucking MUTT, she—

Peeta blinked. Haymitch must have noticed the flicker of _something_ across his face because he wrestled the vodka away. "Enough of this. I'm not even sure you should be drinking in your— _condition_."

Clenching his teeth, Peeta gritted out, "I'm not having an episode."

But was he? His head was starting to feel fuzzy, fuzzier than a few sips of alcohol should rightfully make him feel, this quickly. Haymitch just snorted.

"Sure, kid. I don't know who I'm looking at right now, but it ain't you."

Peeta frowned. He didn't need this. He didn't need a broken alcoholic's judgment. Huffing, he pushed himself to his feet. "Whatever." Before he could walk out the door, Haymitch called after him.

"Maybe it's time for another visit to the Capitol for a checkup, yeah?"

The door rattling in its frame as it slammed shut was the only response.

Peeta was pretty sure the last place he needed to be was the Capitol. The old man had no idea, _no idea_ , what it had been like for him when he was imprisoned, what it had been like trying to recuperate and recover the very mind he had lost in the very spot he had _lost it_. No, not lost—where it had been _taken from him._

Moving as quickly as his bad leg would allow him on the slippery grass, he bypassed Katniss' house completely and headed for his own. But either the alcohol or the prosthetic got ahead of him because the second he stepped on the walkway, he lost his footing.

_THUD crack._

He hit the ground, and his breath was ripped from his chest as pain rocketed through his back and his head, his vision careening dangerously out of focus, black dots popping before his eyes. He couldn't breathe, he couldn't breathe, _he couldn't breathe_.

And just like that, he was back in the Capitol, underneath Snow's mansion, in his cold, damp jail cell, being thrown to the stone floor, unable to get up because they'd taken his prosthetic, unable to scramble away fast enough from the large, angry guard looming over him.

_No, no, please, don't..._

More guards converged on him, forcing him onto his stomach, pinning his limbs out, ripping his pants down.

_PLEASE, no, no, no, please, God..._

He was strapped down to a table, faceless doctors poking and prodding him, jamming needles into his flesh, shoving bits into his mouth to muffle his agonized screams, inducing horrifying visions of mutts and Katniss and mutts and Katniss _and mutts and Katniss_ shredding his skin.

_Not real, not real, not real..._

But it was real, the pain was _real_ , the burning, ripping sensation of being torn in half as Katniss thrust Finnick's trident inside him on the beach, her cruel face twisting and melting and laughing and changing, and it wasn't Katniss but the guard, the large, angry guard, who was laughing, who was violating him with his baton. He didn't even know his name, the man who was _raping_ him.

_No, stop, please, please, don't do this to me, SOMEBODY HELP ME..._

He was sobbing. Was he? He was sobbing huge, racking sobs. He couldn't discern the cold seeping into his bones from the cold licking through his brain. What was real? Was any of it? The pain ricocheting around his skull felt real, and he gasped, finally gasped, forcing air back into his lungs. He closed his eyes—or were they already closed? All he could see were swirling patterns of red and black and white.

 

 

 

 

 

 

  
**_stave ii._ l sol tace  
** or, _where the sun is muted_

_You're back._

Everything hurt. Everything ached. Did he still have his leg? Not his real one—that was still gone, wasn't it?—but his prosthetic; he had gotten that back, hadn't he? He couldn't move, though, even with every synapse in his body screaming at him to just move his fucking limbs, _just open your fucking eyes_. Everything hurt, but his body still felt disjointed from his mind, like he wasn't actually there, like it wasn't his own body that hurt. Why couldn't he move?

"What are you doing down there, little buddy?"

There was a ghost of a touch across his forehead, pushing his hair back. And that voice. _That voice._ It couldn't be.

Peeta opened his eyes—why was it so easy this time?—and looked right into the blue eyes of his father.

His dead father.

"Dad?" he croaked, finding his voice. The skin around his father's eyes crinkled with his smile.

"Did you fall?" he asked, and Peeta just blinked. "That's okay, son. We all fall sometimes."

"How..."

His father shook his head. "Let's get you back on your feet," he said, clasping one of Peeta's cold hands between his own and sliding the other under his shoulder. "Up you go, son," he grunted as he pulled him to his feet. Peeta wobbled, his legs shaking underneath him, but it was like every other ache evaporated. He touched the back of his head, bracing himself for pain, but his fingers just grazed over soft curls. He pulled his hand back; no blood.

Shaking his head, he looked at his father, mystified. "How...Is this—is this real?" He didn't dare hope, he didn't...but he had _touched_ him. It had been a year and a half since he'd last seen his father, since before the Quarter Quell, before the bombs...before he died.

His father smiled sadly. "No, son, I'm afraid it's not." Peeta's stomach clenched, tears springing to his eyes. No, of course it wasn't. So, what was this? His episodes didn't normally feature his family.

"Am I having another attack?" he asked timidly, suddenly feeling so small in his father's presence. His father squeezed his son's arm, still mostly uncovered in the cold air, but Peeta couldn't feel the winter chill, even now.

"Not quite."

There was a warmth in his skin where his father touched him. It seemed like all his earlier anger and anguish were melting under his fingertips. But that was his father—just like before, ever the balm to his mother's rage. Peeta swallowed thickly. "Why am I seeing you now?"

His father smiled again, a sad pull of his lips. "I think you've lost yourself, Peet. This isn't you. This isn't the son I raised."

Shame pressed on his chest like a vise, and he dropped his gaze. He hadn't felt contrition this strongly since the session with Dr. Aurelius when he realized for the first time, with a lucid, cognizant mind, that he had actually choked Katniss. "I know," he whispered, his voice tinny. But what could he do? The Capitol had taken the old him, they had _changed_ him into this. And he didn't know how to get back to what he was before. Did he even want to?

"I think it's time to remind you," his father said, wrapping his arm around Peeta's shoulders and steering him away from Victor's Village. Peeta blinked, and waves of green grass washed over the sheets of snow; the town square came into view. The old town square. Before it was incinerated. He looked at his father in confusion, but something else shook him inside, a sound.

The sound of townspeople bustling.

There weren't enough people in District 12 to create that kind of sound, that hum of voices and laughter and bartering and just the _swish swish swish_ of people walking to and fro as they went about their business. Peeta blinked again, but the scene remained the same. Merchants, most blonde-haired and blue-eyed, darting between store fronts, meeting in the square, lounging on porches, disappearing into shops.

_Not real, not real, not real..._

There were no more Merchants left in District 12, no one but him. Those who had survived the bombing (not many at all), like Delly, hadn't returned, at least not yet. _So what was this?_

"How...where..." His questions lodged in his throat as they approached the bakery, his eyes widening when he saw his father sweeping the porch out front. But his father was still right beside him. He opened his mouth to voice his bewilderment, but a little golden-curled boy rounded the corner, darting up the steps and tripping at the top in his hurry. His father—on the porch—dropped the broom and immediately scooped up the child before the tears could start, but the little boy just smiled widely.

"Look, daddy, look!" The little boy shoved a sheet of paper in his father's face. Gingerly taking the paper from the child, his father studied it.

"And what do we have here, Peeta?"

Oh.

 _Oh._ That was him. Somehow, that little boy was him. He couldn't have been any older than 6. Dumbfounded, Peeta looked at his father—the one next to him—but he was watching the scene wistfully, tears shining in his eyes. Peeta turned back to the scene unfolding before him.

"I drew a picture, daddy!" little Peeta exclaimed, and his father nodded.

"I can see that. But what is it?"

"It's me and Katniss, and we're gonna get married!" Little Peeta beamed, and his father chuckled, raising his eyebrows.

"Oh? And does she know this?"

Little Peeta blushed, ducking his chin to his chest. "No...I dunno how to talk to her."

"Well, maybe you should try speaking to her first, and then you can work on your proposal," his father suggested, unable to hide his amusement as he glanced back at the drawing.

"But daddy...she sings like the birds."

His father sighed, but it wasn't one of exasperation. "I know, son."

Little Peeta stared at his hands, fidgeting nervously, and he shot his father a glance. "Can we put my picture on the fridge, daddy?"

His father's expression turned wary. He didn't say anything at first. "It's a very good drawing, Peet, but I think this should be one you hold onto. Tuck it under your mattress for safe keeping, okay? And maybe one day you can tell Katniss how you feel."

Little Peeta's face had dropped, but it brightened at his father's last words, and he nodded enthusiastically. Snatching the drawing back, he jumped down from his father's arms and sprinted into the bakery. His father just smiled after him, shook his head, and resumed sweeping.

There was a lump in Peeta's throat that he couldn't seem to swallow down. He turned away from the scene, facing his father at his side. "What is this? I don't understand."

His raised his eyebrows. "You don't remember this?" Peeta shook his head. "I guess I'm not surprised. You were only in first grade. But you drew those kinds of pictures all the time. I didn't know what to do with them all," he said with a fond laugh. "You were so smitten with that girl, even at that age."

Peeta's face hardened, and he looked over his father's shoulder. "Yeah, well, I didn't know her then." His father just regarded him sadly, and Peeta fisted his hands when they started to twitch. He remembered drawing her all the time now, even if he didn't remember this particular moment. The memory kindled a ghost of the hope and adulation he felt for her in his youth, but his bitterness snuffed it out when he remembered how his mother had thrown away all his drawings years later. He had been a stupid child, often chastised by his mother for "having his head in the clouds." And she was right. He understood better now, saw the world truly and the people in it for the cruel, selfish creatures they really were.

"I never knew if I should have done more to discourage your crush or not," his father mused. "I still don't know. But it wasn't just puppy love. It was nice watching you grow up so unfettered by the unfairness of our world. At least, for a little while." His eyes shimmered. "I'm sorry I let your mother take that from you." A pause. "I'm sorry _I_ took that from you."

Peeta dropped his gaze, his eyes lighting upon a beetle scurrying by his foot. It didn't matter. If it hadn't been his mother, it would have been someone else. Why should he be afforded the luxury of living in ignorance? Everyone in the districts suffered. "Why are you showing me this?" he finally asked to the ground. What was happening with his mind? Had something come completely unhinged? Was he dying, bleeding out on the stone path back at his house? The thought didn't terrify him as much as it probably should have, he realized.

"I'm trying to bring you back to yourself, son."

He would have laughed out loud if it weren't his father. Not even the Capitol's fanciest doctors could fix him. There was no hope.

His father beckoned for him to follow him to the bakery, and when Peeta glanced at the porch again, it was empty. In the blink of an eye, dusk had fallen. They ascended the steps and entered the bakery. Peeta noticed his younger self (but older than before) quietly mopping the floor of the store front while his father counted the register. His heart stopped when he saw his brother Rye clearing out the day's leftover pastries from the cases.

Rye.

His father, the apparition that had accompanied him, hugged the wall of the bakery; Peeta was frozen in the doorway, too afraid to move closer, too afraid of somehow disrupting the scene and having his brother slip through his fingers. His breath skittered shallowly across his upper lip.

His younger self mopped halfheartedly, a troubled look on his face, and he startled when his father asked him to lock the front door. He moved slowly toward the front, and Peeta jumped aside, rattled. When the lock was turned, the younger Peeta shuffled back toward the register, dragging the mop behind him.

"Dad..." he started hesitantly, his father sparing him a glance as he counted coins. "How are Seam people different from Merchant people? I mean—what makes them Seam?"

His father looked surprised, but Rye snorted, jumping in first, "They have black hair and tan skin, dumbass." Their father immediately scolded him for his language, and Peeta flushed deeply.

"No, I get that. But...that stuff's just—it's, ah, ar—it's arbitrary, isn't it? I mean..." and he hesitated again, glancing toward the staircase that led up to the apartment upstairs. Peeta wasn't sure he remembered this moment, but he understood the apprehension on his own face—only his mother could make him that nervous. "Well, the Everdeens, for example—Mrs. Everdeen and Prim look like us, but they're still considered Seam, right?" he rushed out in one breath. "So...why?"

Rye still looked at his brother as if he'd just asked the most inane question ever, but their father shifted uncomfortably, setting the bag of coins aside and also checking the staircase. "Well, Peeta, I—it's complicated, I guess. I'm not sure you'll understand. Why do you ask?"

Younger Peeta twisted the mop handle in his palms nervously, watching his feet. "It's just...I heard some kids in my class making fun of—well, they were making fun of a—another classmate, who lives in the Seam, calling her 'Seam trash' and stuff, but I've never heard them say those kind of things about Merchants. Why? I mean, why do hair color and skin color matter that much?"

Mr. Mellark cleared his throat awkwardly. "Well, it's not so much those things, Peet—but people like to easily be able to categorize things, I suppose. And—first of all, the name-calling is not acceptable; you should never make fun of anybody. I hope you realize that—"

"I would never do that, dad," he interjected, genuinely appalled at the suggestion.

"I know you wouldn't, I know," his father said softly. Rye snickered behind a case but hushed when their father shot him a stern look. Mr. Mellark pursed his lips, his brow creased as he thought. "It's more than physical appearance, son. It's a class issue. Do you understand that?" His youngest son shook his head. "Well, the Merchants live differently. We have different jobs, more money, more food—" Mr. Mellark broke off, growing increasingly uncomfortable, and he rubbed his forehead. "There's a world of difference between the two of us, a world of difference."

Younger Peeta didn't look convinced. "But...well, why are we so separated? If we have more food, why couldn't we give them some of what we have so we'd be more equal?"

"I—I'm afraid it doesn't work that way, Peeta..."

"But the Everdeens did it," he burst out, a blush igniting his entire face. "I mean—a Merchant married into the Seam. It's happened before. If more people did that, maybe there wouldn't be so much of a divide."

Rye chortled loudly, but this time their father didn't scold him. "Peeta just wants to figure out how to marry his beloved _Katniss Everdeen_ ," Rye cooed mockingly, causing his brother's face to purple. Peeta felt a flash of annoyance at Rye as he watched the exchange, reminded of the daily teasings he endured by his brothers.

"Shut up, Rye!" younger Peeta hissed. A cloudy look had passed over their father's face, as if he were recalling something long ago, something unpleasant.

"Merchants don't look too kindly on their own marrying into the Seam. You face certain ostracism if you do, not just from the town but from your family, too. Life isn't a fairytale, Peeta. I know you mean well, but things don't just change because you want them to." His father's voice was razor-sharp, a harsher tone than they were all used to hearing from such a mild-mannered man. Younger Peeta looked positively demoralized, nodding his head and quickly distracting himself with mopping the floorboards again.

Frowning, Peeta looked at his father, the one who hugged the wall, but he didn't return the stare. He watched himself at the register with hardened chagrin. Peeta thought he vaguely remembered this discussion; he thought he remembered the moment his father crushed his childish idealism. It tasted bitter.

When Peeta turned back, the other three were gone; the scenery had shifted in other ways, too, the cases stocked with fresh baked goods, the specials on the chalkboard erased and changed. It was morning now, too.

"PEETA MELLARK, GET YOUR ASS DOWN HERE RIGHT NOW!"

Peeta flinched as his mother's shrill voice rang through bakery, tinged with the kind of outrage that left him breathless. She stormed out of the back, a brown paper sack clutched in her fist.

Oh, no.

He definitely remembered this moment.

Peeta heard himself barreling down the stairs, spurred into immediate action by his mother's tone of voice. As soon as his feet hit the bakery floor, he froze when he saw what his mother was holding. And what had incited her wrath. She thrust it into his face angrily. "Did you think I wouldn't catch you, young man?" With that, she opened the sack and dumped the contents on the counter. Out tumbled a paltry sandwich wrapped in wax paper, an apple—and two rolls.

Two stale rolls he'd pilfered the night before, after the bakery had closed, after inventory had been taken, hoping no one would notice.

But of course, he should have realized his mother would search his lunch to make sure he wasn't taking more food than she deemed necessary. Of course.

"What makes you think you deserve more food than the rest of us, huh? Are you really that greedy?" she asked, her face pinched in disgust. Peeta—the 11-year-old version of himself, because he definitely knew how old he was in this moment—was paralyzed in his spot, rooted as much by fear as he was by careful calculation. His blue eyes were darting between his mother's face and the rolls, his brain trying to process a response, a believable lie.

Because Peeta hadn't packed the rolls for himself.

He had packed them for Katniss and her sister. Because they were starving, because they had no food to eat, because their mother was too ill and unable to work, because their father had died in a mine explosion only two months prior.

But if his mother hated anything more than greed, it was charity. For someone else, and at their family's expense.

Eleven-year-old Peeta licked his lips. "I didn't think anyone would mind—they're stale. I was just feeling a little hungrier today, ma..."

Peeta knew what was coming, but his stomach still twisted with dread and uncertainty.

"Hungry?" his mother repeated incredulously, dropping the sack and advancing closer to her son. He didn't physically move, but he still seemed to shrink in on himself. "You're hungry? You think we don't feed you enough?"

"No—I mean, yes, I do, it's just—since I started wrestling, I just, I feel a little hungrier sometimes..." His voice cracked, but whether it was from distress or puberty, Peeta wasn't sure. Probably both.

His mother snorted, folding her arms over her chest. "Well, your brothers wrestle, too, but I don't see them stealing rolls from the back. Just because you wrestle, that's no excuse to eat like a pig."

Which was a ludicrous thing to say, to even suggest. No one in the district _ate like a pig_ —there wasn't enough food to pig out on, not even among the Merchant class or district officials.

Even years removed from the moment, Peeta felt the outrage, the injustice roiling through his stomach—he could see it flash through his other self's eyes. "How could I ever eat like a _pig_ when you keep such a tight fist on all our food?"

_Thwack._

Both Peetas flinched when his mother's palm connected sharply with her son's mouth. Peeta thought he could taste the blood, a tiny red flower blooming on his younger self's lip, trickling into the dry cracks chapped by the cold weather.

"Don't you talk back to me," she threatened, her eyes blazing, and her son just stared at the ground sullenly, his tongue darting out to catch the blood. "You're scrubbing the ovens tonight, do you understand me?" Eleven-year-old Peeta nodded, muttering a "yes, ma'am," and she stuffed his sandwich and apple back into the bag, shoving it into his hands. "Now, go clean yourself up. I don't want to hear another word from you for the rest of the morning." He turned and jogged back upstairs. Scoffing to herself, Mrs. Mellark snatched up the rolls and disappeared into the back room.

Peeta's chest still burned with the memory of the moment, how angry he'd felt about the abuse but also at his mother's unreasonableness, how hopeless he felt about Katniss' situation. But he had to remind himself that he was able to get her the burnt bread only a month later, that he had helped her eventually, that she was soon able to start feeding herself and her family, that she was okay now.

He snorted abruptly. What an absurd thought. She wasn't okay, not even now. Neither of them were.

Movement from the corner of his eye caught his attention; his father was crossing toward him, the pain palpable on his face. Flushing with resentment, Peeta looked away. "What was the point of that? If there's anything I _haven't_ forgotten, it's how Mom's fist felt against my face," he muttered lowly.

His father shook his head sadly. "No, I'm sure you haven't." It sounded like there was an apology in there somewhere, but it wasn't forthcoming. Good. Peeta didn't think he could stomach it at the moment. "But despite your mother's best intentions, and...even despite my own complicity, you never wavered in your convictions, your ideals. Things mattered to you, people mattered to you. I just wanted you to know I—well, you always made me proud. The only good thing I left behind in this world."

Peeta blinked furiously against the sudden tears, his jaw clenched. "I...I'm sorry I'm not that person anymore," he said brokenly, his chest tight, too ashamed to meet his father's imploring gaze, because he wasn't, was he? He had regressed into this hostile, unhinged psychopath, just a whisper of the person he had been. He had forgotten, he had almost forgotten, but this, this was brutal, a harsh reminder of all he'd lost.

"I still think you're in there somewhere," his father said, soft but resolute, and Peeta squeezed his eyes shut, fat tears sliding down his cheeks. He felt his father's strong and steady touch on his forehead, smoothing his hair back, and his breath stuttered in his chest.

_You worthless boy She's just Seam trash Her dad got himself killed 'cuz he didn't even want her Life isn't a fairytale, Peeta Feed it to the pig, you stupid child! She sings like the birds, daddy Things don't just change because you want them to Get your head out of the clouds Maybe District 12 will actually have a winner this year She doesn't even know you exist, Peeta Look, daddy, look! You're Merchant; why do you even care about them? But they're dying They're trash; if they can't take care of themselves, what's it to us? Are you really that greedy? We're gonna get married! You're back Her mom was a slut, anyway I don't want to hear another word from you this morning There's a world of difference between the two, a world of difference You're back You stupid creature!_

Peeta gasped, the metallic tang of blood sharp on his tongue, thick in his nose. But it was black, everything was black and sightless, and the back of his head throbbed, but he had no arms, no hands, to touch it, to feel. There was a hum, a low buzz in the base of his skull, then it was screeching, reverberating around his head, droning, droning, _droning_.

"Want a sugar cube?"

His eyes popped open, and before where there was nothing now lounged a one Finnick Odair, an arm draped over the back of a velvety red couch, the other lifting a sugar cube to his crooked mouth.

Peeta blinked.

Then scowled.

"What is it with you and sugar?"

Finnick shrugged, popping the cube into his mouth. "It's kind of my thing," he crunched around the tiny block, grinning.

Peeta might have been more astonished by his fellow victor's presence, if he hadn't already seen his dead father. And speaking of which...he spun around in a circle, but his father was gone. "Where's my dad?" he asked, mild panic rising in his throat.

"Dead like the rest of us, I suppose." Finnick said it so simply, so matter-of-factly, Peeta had to balk. Finnick held up his hand, shaking his head. "None of that. There's plenty of time for pity parties later. Right now, you've got an appointment to get ready for."

"What?" Why was he here? Why was he seeing Finnick? Why had his father left him? _Again_?

Smiling cheekily, Finnick approached him. "Tonight's your big debut, Lover Boy," he simpered, running a hand down his cheek, and Peeta recoiled, slapping his hand away.

"What the fuck?" he asked, bewildered. The man in front of him wasn't Finnick. He wasn't the person he'd come to know and respect in District 13 and on Star Squad 451. This man was a farce, a Capitol creation, a _mutt_.

_Not real, not real, not real..._

Finnick smirked. "Better get used to that real fast, Peeta. By the end of the night, you're gonna _wish_ it was just me touching you."

Peeta's eyes widened. " _What_?"

"I told you, you had an appointment." He leaned closer, his breath hot on his face. "Better not keep them waiting, either. It's so much worse when you keep them waiting."

Something like lead solidified in Peeta's stomach. Finnick's mouth was tugged sideways into a small smile, but his sea green eyes churned with disgust and self-loathing. His eyes were dead, dead, dead.

"No..." Peeta whispered, but Finnick just nodded solemnly. This couldn't be happening—how could this be happening? He looked around wildly, taking stock of their opulent surroundings, of textured couches and imposing architectural structures and gratuitous statues and offensive colors and Capitol _waste_. His eyes lighted upon a towering mirror, and he nearly doubled over in shock. He and Finnick were a matching set in yellow-orange suits with black, neatly pressed dress shirts underneath. But his skin...his skin was shiny and unmarred, free of the burns and scars he'd grown accustomed to seeing in the mirror every day, the scars that marked him as a fire mutt. A fire mutt like Katniss. His skin almost shimmered gold under the lights, and his blonde curls were perfectly coiffed around his head.

Finnick locked eyes with him in the mirror, the same smirk playing at his lips. "Saffron," he explained, as if Peeta understood, gesturing to the suits. "It's how they identify us."

Then he turned and walked away. Peeta followed him, moving without meaning to, as if he were being pulled by some unseen force. "Finnick," he choked out. "How...I don't understand...how... _how_?"

Finnick slowed down to fall into step with him, slinging an arm around his shoulders. "This isn't the world you know, Peeta."

"Then _what_ , what is it?" He was desperate to understand.

"What could have been, my friend. If you hadn't been so... _lucky_." He hit the last word with a sharp note of amusement, as if any victor's life could be considered lucky. "Here, you didn't enter the games with Katniss. Here, your district partner was Prim. Who died because you failed to save her. The guilt is excruciating, I'm sure."

And Peeta _knew_ this; as Finnick spoke, he knew it to be true. He could see it all, unfolding before his eyes as if it had actually happened, new neurons fusing together to form these memories. His heart seized painfully in his chest, his eyes watering with the tide of shame and horror and grief he felt as he flashed through these recollections, experiencing them for the first time all over again.

Prim.

Oh, _Prim_.

"And you were the sole victor—congratulations, by the way, I mean, that final showdown with Cato, wow—but without the safety of a love story to buffer you from the fate of all desirable winners, I'm afraid President Snow jumped at the chance to cash in on the profitable possibilities you presented," Finnick rambled, all the while leading Peeta down hallways and through double doors. They passed Capitol citizens who either nodded in greeting or ignored them completely, as if this was normal. "And now you're the Capitol's newest call boy. Quite an honor, really. You pulled in such high bidders, too—not as high as yours truly, of course, but your going rate was admirable."

Peeta felt like he was going to be sick. His heart was in his stomach, an uncomfortable sweat breaking out across his face. "What...what about...Katniss? Where is she?"

Finnick sighed, his hand tightening on Peeta's shoulder. "Back in District 12, where she never left. As you can imagine, she didn't take Prim's death very well. I believe you tried to see her after you returned, but she screamed something awful at you. She blamed you for Prim's death—though it was one of Clove's knives that stopped her heart, really—said she could never forgive you."

Peeta saw it all, the rage and agony that contorted Katniss' face stealing his breath. She had an arrow aimed at his heart, clearly unconcerned about having her weapon found by Peacekeepers at this point, shrieking her hate for him. _She's dead! My sister is dead! You killed her! You're a monster! I hate you! Get out of my life, or I'll kill you myself!_

"Oh, God," he whispered, bile rising in his throat. He wanted to run, to curl up in a ball and disappear, but Finnick kept him moving.

"I don't think she's gotten any better in the past year. Slowly wasting away because she doesn't have the heart to hunt and feed herself. When there's no one left you love, what's the point, right? Gale tries to help when he can, but, you know, with three siblings, he can't spare much. He works in the mines now, so he can't really hunt either. I imagine, another year and Katniss will be dead."

Dead.

Katniss, dead. The thought warred with the baser instinct in him, the impulse the Capitol had implanted deep in his brain like a chip, that craved for her death, longed to be the one who killed her himself, who wrapped his hands around her tiny little neck and squeezed and squeezed and squeezed until the capillaries in her eyes burst. He groaned loudly, swallowing against the queasiness in his stomach. He didn't want that, he didn't want her _dead_ , he didn't want that, not really. It was Katniss. She was _Katniss_. _She sings like the birds..._

Finnick stopped them in front of a silver door and retracted his arm from Peeta's shoulders. "You ready?" Then he laughed airily, waving his hand dismissively. "Not that it matters if you are or not, of course. Now, remember—do everything your client asks. If you refuse, Snow will kill somebody you love. One of your brothers, perhaps. Or even dear ol' Dad." Finnick winked, ignoring Peeta's horrified expression, and he threw the door open. "Good luck."

Peeta tried to resist, he tried to pull away, tried to scream, but his feet carried him into the room, toward the pudgy, coral-skinned man who awaited him on the bed, sprawled on top of the silk sheets. His flesh was ridged with sparkly surface piercings, the horn implants on his forehead giving him a sinister look.

He tried not to think, he tried to go somewhere else in his mind, like he had learned to do in the Capitol when the pain was too much. But the man was relentless, he was merciless, and Peeta was locked in a world of excruciation and torment, he was dying, he was dying inside, his body felt like it was being torn asunder, but no one could hear him screaming, no one could save him.

When it was done, after he'd hastily put his clothes back on, he stumbled out of the room, a broken, defeated thing. He didn't know where he was going, but it didn't matter—nothing mattered—Finnick found him, anyway, leading him, half-carrying him, to another room. Peeta collapsed on a couch, dry heaving and gagging as he curled in on himself. His face was wet from tears he hadn't realized he was crying. Finnick just sighed.

"It gets easier, I promise."

And that was the worst part of it all, wasn't it? It _did_ get easier. Peeta knew that because during his imprisonment, it had gotten easier then, too, easier to block out the torture and the rape.

But this wasn't real, this shouldn't be happening, he shouldn't _have_ to get used to this.

"Finnick, please...just let me go home...I wanna go back..."

The other victor regarded him wearily, but there was understanding in the depths of his eyes. "Not just yet, I'm afraid. There's still one more thing..." Finnick sat down on the couch next to him, and his hand pushed the damp curls off Peeta's forehead tenderly, almost lovingly.

 _Because that's what you and I do We protect each other I want to die as myself You were dead! I noticed everything about you I just want to go home You were the one who wasn't paying attention Then you shoot me_ _**Peeta!** _ _You don't have any competition anywhere I guess the real question is how much is going to be left when we get home?_ _**Haymitch!** _ _You shoot me and go home and live with it! I wish I could freeze this moment right here, right now, and live in it forever_ _**Help!** _ _You're back Here to finish me off, sweetheart? It'd be just like shooting another one of the Capitol's mutts I must have loved you a lot I do, I need you I don't want them to change me in there I'll allow it_ _**HAYMITCH!** _ _You're back You're a painter, you're a baker Turn me into some kind of monster I'm not_ _**HAYMITCH HELP ME!** _ _Stay with me Always_

_Always_

_Always._

Peeta opened his eyes but squinted against the harsh bright light that stung his retinas. He closed them, the muted light bleeding through his closed lids, then he cracked them open, again, but slowly. Still, all he saw was a wall of whiteness.

No, not whiteness. The longer he stared, the more his eyes could decipher the lines and dimples of light gray clouds. Sky. He was looking at the sky. He suddenly became aware of the weight and shape of his body, and instinctively, he pushed himself into a sitting position. His surroundings were at once clear. He was in Victor's Village, in front of his house, on the walkway where he had fallen.

Was he back? Very carefully, he clambered to his feet. Everything was quiet, so quiet, the kind of silence you hear when snow is falling, when the world is so hushed and peaceful, it's like you can actually hear each snowflake hitting the earth. But there was no snow falling, just the snow already on the ground. And he still couldn't feel the cold air, despite his thin sweater.

Blinking, he glanced around the village and startled when he saw a small girl in front of Katniss' house, her back turned to him. She stood in front of the primrose bushes he'd planted when he'd first returned, bushes that were dead now, long dead. Her immaculately white nightgown was almost lost amongst the snow, but her olive skin and dark plaits stood in stark contrast. Hesitantly, he shuffled through the snow toward her, feeling inexplicably drawn to this small child.

When he was closer, he stopped. "Hello, are you lost?" he asked softly, keeping his voice low and soothing so as not to startle her. She spun around to look at him, and he couldn't remember how to breathe. Katniss. It was Katniss.

But, no, her eyes...her eyes were a liquid blue, wide pools of innocence. And now that he was really looking at her, he could see that it wasn't Katniss—her features were softer—but the resemblance was so strong, it made his heart ache in an odd way, like he was missing something he hadn't realized was gone. The little girl stared at him, rooting him to his spot, but then she gently took his hand, wrapping her tiny hand around three of his fingers. His breath hitched in his chest, and he watched in amazement as she led him up the steps. She had to stand on her toes to twist the door knob, guiding him inside after her.

Peeta tensed immediately as he walked through the doorway. This couldn't be real, but he had no idea what to expect going into Katniss' house. Was she there? He felt his stomach twisting with everything he had experienced and witnessed already, and he found it wasn't with anger but dread and fear. And longing.

He hadn't felt longing like this in so long, especially for Katniss. But the ache of remembering how she'd rejected him in what Finnick had shown him, of not _having_ her in his life, by his side, in those terrible moments in the Capitol, it made his insides quiver. Where was she? He had to know she was okay, that she wasn't wasting away from anger and grief and hunger, not again.

The little girl led him into the kitchen and stopped. Confused, he looked around and then down at her, but she seemed to be staring into empty space. She had yet to say a word, and he was afraid to speak, afraid of what he would see next, what he would be subjected to. Suspiciously, he surveyed the kitchen, but he didn't see anything out of place.

Until he saw the blood. His eyes widened as they took in the dark red hand prints smudged on the counters. He briefly wondered if it was his blood, from earlier when he'd cut himself making dinner, but there was no food left out. Then he noticed the spatters of blood on the floor, creating a trail through the kitchen, past where they stood and into the living room.

"What happened?" he whispered fearfully, finally breaking the delicate silence. The little girl turned at his voice, looking up at him with round eyes, before she tugged him out of the kitchen, following the trail of blood. It led up the staircase.

His heart was throbbing in his chest, his breaths scarce. _Where are you, Katniss? Where are you? Where are you? Where are you?_

The blood stains seemed to get bigger the farther they tracked them, and he felt like he was going to crawl out of his skin with anxiety, wanting to run ahead of the girl, wanting to pull away and run back out the door. But something propelled him forward, not the same uncontrollable forward motion that kept him moving when Finnick had led him to his client, but something else entirely. _Where are you, Katniss?_

The little girl pulled him down the hallway toward the bathroom, where the blood trail seemed to end. All he could hear was his heart thundering in his ears, and when he stepped into the doorway, the blood drained so quickly from his face, he actually thought he was going to black out.

Katniss.

And blood.

Blood everywhere.

Blood pooling around her lifeless body, seeping out of the open gashes in her stomach and her chest and her neck.

"Oh, my God," he gasped, finally sucking in air he hadn't realized he needed. He wanted to run to her, to gather her body in his arms, to feebly cover the gushing wounds in her neck, but he couldn't move, he couldn't move, he couldn't do _anything_. "Katniss, oh, my God, Katniss..."

The little girl released his hand, padding farther into the bathroom as he watched in horror. She stood next to Katniss , her feet sinking into the blood-soaked bath rug, and she cast her eyes down silently. Then she turned her face to his, her blue eyes round with confusion and terror and—accusation?

"Daddy?" she whispered shakily, and his mouth parted in disbelief. But when her gaze dropped to his hands, his own eyes followed. And his heart stopped as he brought his blood-sticky hands up before him, a kitchen knife gripped tightly in his right.

His heart turned to ice, and he uncurled his fingers, letting the knife clatter to the floor. "Oh, no, oh no no no no..."

" _Daddy?_ What did you do to mommy?"

No no no no no...His vision swam, blackness pushing on his eyes. Breathless and trembling, he fell to his knees, bracing himself against the doorframe. He had _killed_ her, he'd actually done it.

_Not real, not real, not real..._

But the blood was warm on his hands, the smell and taste of iron thick in the air. "Oh, God, Katniss...oh, help, oh, help..." His head was light, and his heart felt like it'd been torn from his ribcage. Even in his haze, all that filled his fading vision was her dead body.

_Not real, not real, not real, NOT REAL!_

Peeta leaned his head against the wall, his eyes rolling to the back of his head as everything went black.

 

 

 

 

 

 

**_stave iii._ diritta via  
** or, _the right way_

_Let me go!_

_I can't._

_Don't let go of me._

_I can't._

_**I can't.** _

_You're back._

_Stay with me._

_You're back._

_Always._

_You're back._

_**You're back.** _

His eyes fluttered open, a throbbing in the back of his head immediately apparent, and he winced against the pain. He was staring at a ceiling, and he cracked his lips to speak, but everything rushed back to him. "Help," he croaked, his tongue heavy in his mouth, and he tried to push himself off the wall—but his hands sunk into stiff cushions, and the unexpected give of the material sent him crashing back down.

A small gasp startled him, the surface underneath him shifting strangely. And then she was above him.

Katniss.

"Peeta!"

Her cold hands grasped his face, but the shivers racketing down his spine had little to do with the chill. He was speechless as he took in her face, her healthily flushed skin signifying the blood that still coursed through her veins and not through the open lacerations in her neck and her chest. The memory rattled him, and he choked on his attempts to breathe normally, his hands abruptly grabbing her wrists and then her shoulders and then her face. She was real. "Katniss," he murmured, and her eyes watered almost instantaneously.

"Oh, Peeta, I was so scared..."

He was too relieved, too shaken to wonder what had scared her. His arms snaked around her shoulders, crushing her to his chest, and she muffled her sob against his neck. "Katniss," he breathed again, just to say her name, his voice wobbly with the strain of his emotions, and he closed his eyes. She was real, she was real, she was real...

But she was being ripped away from him, and, panicked, he tried to pull her back, opening his mouth to scream because no, no, this couldn't be happening, not again—but someone else sat down next to him, a woman he didn't recognize, and the small flashlight she was shining in his face made him flinch, his eyes reflexively squeezing shut. But she clucked her tongue in admonishment.

"Open your eyes, Mr. Mellark," she commanded, so authoritatively he complied before he could even question it. He squinted against the harsh light until his eyes adjusted, and after a moment she hummed her approval. "Good. That's good. I think you're gonna be okay."

"Huh?" he asked stupidly, but she was standing up, and then Katniss was back at his side, wrapping her arms around him again, and he forgot all about the woman. He held onto her for dear life, so scared she was going to disappear again, so scared if he let her go, he'd find her dead and bloodied on the floor again.

"I'm so glad you're awake. I thought...I didn't know..." She inhaled deeply, sucking down whatever words she couldn't seem to get out. So many questions surged to the forefront of his mind then, but he didn't know what to ask first.

He was saved the trouble.

"You gave us quite a scare, kid," Haymitch grunted, and his eyes snapped to where the older man stood behind the couch—Peeta was on a couch in his house, he realized now. At the uncertainty in his stare, Haymitch elaborated, "Katniss found you unconscious in front of your house. You must have slipped. You hit your head pretty good—there was quite a bit of blood. Sweetheart was screaming bloody murder for me to help, and we got you inside. I had to go get Louise here to make sure you hadn't gone and died on us." Haymitch nodded his head across the room, and Peeta saw the woman who'd flashed the light in his eyes leaning over a chair as she packed up her medical supplies. She smiled politely at him, then she snapped her bag closed and stood up straight.

"I think you're going to be fine. Just keep those bandages on your head for a little while, change them when you can. You should really take it easy for a while, too. Get someone else to open the bakery while you recover," she instructed, and he removed his (freshly bandaged) hand from Katniss' back to touch the bandage that was wound around his head. "I've got to get back to my other patient, but keep an eye on him and don't let him go back to sleep for a while. If he starts throwing up, come get me immediately."

Haymitch nodded. "Thank you for your help, Louise." Peeta whispered a thanks, his hand sliding around to Katniss' back again, and with a last smile, Louise left. Katniss didn't budge from her spot, her fingers curling into his sweater. She was shaking, and he knew he was, too, so he just held her tighter. She was real, this was real, _she was safe_.

Haymitch sighed. "I called Dr. Aurelius," he said sternly, almost hesitantly. "I think it would be a good idea for you to check in with him again, but he understood you were in no position to travel to the Capitol right now, so he agreed to come here. He should be here in a couple days."

Locking eyes with him over the couch, Peeta nodded. "You're right. Thank you, Haymitch," he said, hoping his voice and his eyes conveyed just how grateful he was.

With a tight grimace, Haymitch inched toward the door. "Anyway, I think the girl is capable of taking care of you from here. You two know where to find me..." And then he was gone.

Only then did Katniss unfurl herself from his chest. Her cheeks were wet, her gray eyes shimmering. His heart clenched painfully. How much pain he had caused her... "I'm so sorry, Katniss," he whispered, and he was met with confusion.

"Why are you apologizing?" she asked softly, smoothing his hair back. He closed his eyes at her touch, recalling the warm feel of her blood on his hands, and he shook his head to knock loose the memory.

"I've been...I've been so horrible to you, and..." His voice caught, and he swallowed thickly, his hands framing her face. "I had...such terrible dreams...terrible, terrible nightmares...I didn't know what was real..."

She frowned. "What were they about?"

He remembered it all then, and his own eyes grew wet. He took a deep breath to try to center himself, and he said the only thing he could say, "Losing you." Her cheeks twitched, the tic loosing fresh tears from her eyes, and she burrowed against his chest again, tucking her head under his chin.

"You won't," she said, sounding so resolute and sure, but he knew. He knew if he weren't careful, he would. And if he lost her, he'd lose himself. And this world wasn't worth living in without the good of her.

So Peeta just held onto her as if his life depended on it. Because, really, it did.

 

 

Nothing beat nights like this, nights where she let him have all of her, let him kneel her on top of their bed, holding her hips up and sliding her knees open farther so he could push into her over and over. Katniss was boneless underneath him, made useless from her orgasm, but she braced her forearm against the headboard to stop her head from hitting it with each of his thrusts.

His hips moved in a frenzy. He grunted, and she keened; he pushed, and she pulled. His thrusts parted her thighs even more on every stroke, and she slid farther down to the mattress, but he couldn't be bothered to fix their position now. Peeta slumped over her to brace himself on the headboard, too, the angle bowing her back under his stomach. Katniss' moans were muffled in the sheets, drowned out by the _bang bang bang_ of the headboard against the wall.

Pleasure coiled low in his stomach, and he finally stilled his movements as he spent himself inside her. He allowed her body to swallow him up, taking everything he had to give her, everything he was, and as he gasped and trembled and begged against her shoulder, he knew he would give it to her willingly, every time, always.

With a groan, he slid out of her and curled around her, allowing them both a minute to come down before Katniss climbed out of bed to clean herself up. She kissed him sweetly then disappeared into the bathroom, and Peeta pushed himself into a sitting position. Sighing in contentment, he leaned his head against the headboard and closed his eyes. He heard the sink running in the bathroom, and after a moment it cut off, the door swinging open again. He opened his eyes to watch her slink back to the bed, naked and flushed from sex. Smiling, he threw the covers off so she could crawl in between his legs and press her back against his chest. She went to tug the sheet up to shield her body, but he shook his head and pushed it down. She made a noise of protest, but he just buried his nose in her hair, chuckling gruffly as he splayed his fingers over her belly.

Over her slightly swollen belly, where their child was growing.

It had taken years to get to this point, many long years and many tough winters. But Peeta got better with time, as did his episodes. He had been so terrified in the beginning, right after his fall, when his attacks would hit, so scared that would be the day, that would be the moment when he snapped and plunged a knife into her neck. But, somehow, mercifully, his episodes were less intense after that point, and they grew even less intense still, until finally, his chair-gripping attacks were only mild migraines that lapsed in their frequency to just a few times a year. He was able to get to that point through regular sessions with Dr. Aurelius, new medication and, he was convinced, sheer will power.

And Katniss. Always Katniss, his wife, the soon-to-be mother of his child. The physical intimacy helped immensely, helped ground him even further, her words of love bringing him back to himself, reminding him of who he was, reminding him, even through the haze of pain, that things could be good again.

She squirmed in his embrace then, goosebumps forming on her arms and stomach. "I'm cold, Peeta," she whined, and he laughed again, finally letting her pull the covers up over their naked, sweaty bodies. They fell silent again, Katniss dipping her head back on his shoulder and Peeta nuzzling the side of her face.

"I love you," he murmured, and she smiled sleepily, proclaiming the same. He began rubbing small circles on her belly with his palms, and she hummed in approval.

"What do you think it's going to be?" she mused, her hands coming to rest over top of his. He was quiet for a moment as he thought, dropping his mouth to press a kiss to her shoulder, and he remembered a vision from long ago. Fear coursed through his veins at the memory, a terror he felt fresh every time he remembered, and he held his wife tighter against him, as he did every time the fear struck; he just held on tight until the feeling subsided.

"A girl. I think it's going to be a girl," he said quietly after a beat. "With your skin and your hair but my eyes. And she's going to be the most perfect little person in the world."

Katniss laughed, amused. "That's oddly specific," she whispered. "You certain about that?" Peeta just nodded, holding his hands over her womb, eager to touch the baby growing inside her. Soon, he would be able to. In just a few months' time, he would be able to hold their child in his arms; Baby Mellark was due in January.

Winter wasn't so hard these days.

 

 

 _"My guide and I came on that hidden road_  
 _to make our way back into the bright world;_  
 _and with no care for any rest, we climbed—_  
 _he first, I following—until I saw,_  
 _through a round opening, some of those things_  
 _of beauty Heaven bears. It was from there_  
 _that we emerged, to see—once more—the stars."_  
—Canto 34, lines 133-139, Dante Alighieri's **_Inferno_**

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you, thank you, thank you to misshoneywell for all the help with this story. Really, she helped me figure out the idea based on the prompt given by salanderjade, and this story would be severely lacking without her brilliance.


End file.
